Priam and His Customers

4 • wayward gods

wayward gods

DESPITE BEING AN atheist, Priam had the unfortunate opportunity of meeting few gods. Or at least, what was left of them. A majority of them had perished during that one global event he heard being broadcasted on the community radio. It was called Armageddon, but he was in the shower that time, so he's not really sure if he heard correctly.

The first god was a customer who had too long limbs, a senile smile, skin dark as obsidian, and manic eyes all over every exposed skin they have. They order a single black coffee every time they come to the café. And never drank it.

In the end, it was an angry archangel who made them stop coming. It may have involved an unsanitary use of café-owned utensils, deicide, and the wrath of two suns being combined as one. But those details are inconsequential, in Priam's opinion.

Only the stain of ichor seeping through the wooden table and floor remained. It took Priam four hours to wash off the stain.

The second god owned an arcade down the street. He never really went to The Pit that much, but he usually came when the weather was dreadful. Said he preferred it when there were fewer customers. His eyes held stars and galaxies and freckles on his skin connected glowing constellations. The foods he preferred ordering were s'mores and milk tea.

The third set of gods are...

Well, they've been regulars for as long as The Pit stands. In Priam's biased opinion, they're not really pleasant company.

"Hello, welcome to The Pit!" Priam greeted as the doors opened. However, upon seeing the two who entered, his smile dropped. "Oh, it's you two again."

"We promise we won't make a mess," the man called Fucker immediately blurted out, seeing that Priam was ready to throw the tip jar at him.

Priam fought the urge to roll his eyes. He put the jar down. "That's what you said when the kid shoved a spoon in your eye last Monday. I don't trust your words," he spat, unnerved. "Look, Mr. Fucker, it's none of my business if you two have issues but I've had enough of cleaning after your ashes every week."

"What 'kid'?" the man called Fucker sputtered. "You mean Sibyl? He's six centuries older than you! And what did you just call me?"

"Please don't change the subject, Mr. Fucker."

"My name isn't Fucker!" the man called Fucker throws his hands up in indignation. "It's Emmett!"

"Fine, whatever," Priam pinched his nose, yielding. "Mr. Emmett then."

"Fucker, I'll have a large parfait!" called the boy, Sibyl, from the two-seater table beside the window. His clothes are the same as always—a crimson school uniform—but the edges of his sleeves were burnt. "The largest one!"

Priam narrowed his eyes at the man called Fucker whose name was actually Emmett.

"It's a nickname he picked up in the streets," Emmett defended hastily. "He was raised in the streets before we met. He calls me that as an insult and it kinda stuck."

"I thought he's centuries ol—"

His reply was immediate. "Well, he's from the streets centuries from now, obviously. Nasty times, really. Don't ask."

Priam only narrowed his eyes at him once again but didn't question him any further. He sighed and massaged his forehead. "Okay, okay, fine," he says, more to himself than the person in front of him. "Fine. I'll take your order. Just don't make a mess, I beg of you."